


Mother Hen

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hand Feeding, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Holmes just needs to be taken care of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Hen

**Author's Note:**

> This could be read as platonic or romantic, whatever you want. 
> 
> Just in case someone recognizes this, I did have this story published on my ffn account. I edited and revised, but this is still my story and I did not steal it.

"Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson called out with a polite knock to the door. She paused for a moment until she heard a faint invitation to come in, then walked into Holmes and Watson's parlor, carrying an empty tray.

Watson was comfortably sitting in his chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other and his hat resting precariously atop his knee. He peered over his newspaper and smiled at the woman, "How may I be of assistance, my dear Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mr. Holmes has called for you. He seems quite agitated, Doctor, but we are fortunate that all of his firearms have been put away," She said as she gathered up cups and put them on her tray. She shook her head at the mess of the room, but went about cleaning regardless.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I shall see to him now," Watson replied. He folded and set down his newspaper, then put his hat on top of the paper. He gave a curt nod to is landlady as he passed her on his way to the door. He made his way to Holmes' room with haste. He could very easily expect a trivial matter for which Holmes' would demand his immediate attention, but with Holmes, there was a certain attention he required every so often. Watson preferred to be safe rather than sorry when it came to Holmes. He entered the room with a swift passing knock, not bothering to wait for Holmes' reply.

"Holmes?" He asked, walking into the dimly lit room. There was just one candle lit on the table on the far side of the room, leaving most of it shrouded in darkness. A soft grunt came in reply to his question, but nothing else. 

Watson followed the sound and made his way to where the consulting detective had nestled himself on the floor in the corner of the room. He pulled put a match and lit a nearby candle, illuminating Holmes' pale face. He was curled up in a loose fetal position, one hand curled around his knee and the other worrying his lip and bobbing as he mumbled softly to himself.

"Old boy, are you quite alright?" Watson asked, taking in, with concern, the way Holmes trembled and how his eyelids drooped closed as if on the very precipice of sleep. Cautiously, he asked, "You haven't been at the needle recently, have you, Holmes?"

"I'm afraid I am as sober as you, good doctor."

"Then for what reason did you call for me? Is there no immediate problem you have for me?" Watson couldn't help but smirk, for he knew exactly what the problem was. He could see it in Holmes' body language and in his voice. It was overwhelmingly obvious that Holmes needed him.

"I would appreciate it if you ceased your toying with me, Watson. You know very well what the problem is." Holmes was not pouting when he mumbled the words. No, sir, he never pouted like he was a petulant child. He was scowling at Watson, like a man would. 

"Indeed. Shall I get Mrs. Hudson to draw you a nice warm bath?" Watson offered, stripping his jacket and rolling up the sleeves.

"I should like that very much, thank you," Holmes replied. He moved his thumb, positioning it between his lips, then hooking his thumbnail over his bottom teeth. Watson pulled his hand away from his mouth without a word, just a gentle look of reprimand.

Watson called down the hallway for Mrs. Hudson and kindly asked for her to draw a bath. She nodded and went to her task quickly. Watson did the same, though he started a different task. He turned to Holmes, "Alright, dear, let's get these clothes off of you now." 

He helped him up from the floor and stripped him down to just his trousers. After a couple minutes, Mrs. Hudson related that the washbasin was full and ready, and Watson escorted Holmes down the stairs to the bathroom. Wordlessly, because Holmes wasn't one for conversation in his state, Watson helped Holmes out of his trousers and pants, then held his hand to keep him steady as Holmes climbed into the bath.

Holmes seemed to lose some of his tension as he soaked in the warm water, eyes closing as he was able to finally relax a little. He angled his head back towards Watson to create an ease of access for the doctor to wash his hair. Watson went about scrubbing the suds into Holmes' dark hair, massaging the man's scalp. He hummed a gentle tune as he rinsed out the soap, knowing Holmes found calmness in music.

Holmes was practically asleep in the tub when Watson tapped his shoulder, "Holmes, let me wash you body now, hm?" His voice was just a soft murmur as he soaped up a washrag. Holmes only made a noncommittal noise, so Watson began to scrub Holmes' arms and chest. Holmes seemed to wake up a bit when Watson moved down to his legs, but only sighed sleepily.

Fifteen minutes later, Watson had managed to get Holmes dry and upstairs with no help from the consulting detective. Holmes was dressed in his nightgown despite the fact that it was still somewhat early for bed. His hair was still a bit damp, but Holmes didn't seem to mind to much as he curled up in his chair by the fire. 

"Now that you are all clean, why don't we get some food in your belly?" Watson suggested.

"Yes, that sounds very good, my dear friend," Holmes answered, his lips turning up in a genuine smile, rare for Watson to see outside of Holmes' current state of mind.

Watson smiled back, "Then what should you like, Holmes?"

"Tea and biscuits."

"No, darling, choose something substantial. Just something sweet will upset your stomach," Watson scolded halfheartedly.

"Very well, perhaps a piece of toast. With that jam you get from the market down the street," Holmes said, surprising Watson by not being difficult and stubborn for once. Watson beamed at him before going to fetch the food. After a few minutes, Watson returned with a tray. Holmes had been staring at the door when he came back, as if he had been intently waiting for Watson's arrival. He let go of his breath when Watson walked in and set the tray down on the table.

Watson was no shocked when Holmes made no move to touch the food, just sitting still in his chair. Watson spread the jam over the toast then cut it in fourths. It was an incredibly simple skill, but Watson practiced it so often, it was second nature, requiring no effort, concentration, or thinking. He put one of the fourths to Holmes' lips, "Here, old boy, have a taste."

Holmes took a tentative bit, not bothering to take the piece from Watson so he could feed himself. Watson continued to feed Holmes until both pieces of toast he had prepared were gone and the glass of milk he had brought up with it was almost empty. Watson ran a hair through Holmes' almost dry hair, praising him, "There's a good lad."

Holmes beamed at that, ecstatic that he had made Watson happy, though he would later deny it.

"Let's get you settled in bed," Watson said, pulling Holmes up gently by the elbow. He guided him to the bedroom and sat him on the bed, where Holmes remained, content. He idly rubbed his fingers over the thick, worn quilt he used in the winter. He watched as Watson closed the shades and curtains, then lit the lamp by the bed.

"Here we go, Holmes." Watson pushed Holmes' chest until he was laying down the bed, head on his pillow. Once Holmes was comfortable on the mattress, Watson pulled the covers over his now clean, full body. He made a point to tuck the quilt around Holmes, wanting him to feel secure and warm. When he was sure Holmes was ready for the night, he leaned close and pressed a chaste kiss to Holmes' forehead, "Goodnight, love."

Holmes smiled and brought his hand up to his face, sucking on his thumb as his eyes drooped. When Watson blew out the lamp and made to leave, Holmes grabbed his wrist, "Stay, Mother Hen. Please?"

"Alright. Just until you fall asleep," Watson complied and crawled into the bed, forming the lager spoon around Holmes.

Holmes' breath evened out, but Watson didn't move, so warm and comfortable in his spot against Holmes. He loved it when Holmes was like this: quiet, compliant, and sweet. 

Sometimes, Holmes just needed to be taken care of.


End file.
